


Bloodlines

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Late Nights in Baker Street [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Sherlock's just a little bit broken inside, bloodline, client - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A client who shows up at Baker Street elicits far too many feelings in Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ms Flaversham

Sherlock's so focused over a complex experiment involving liver fluke, that he doesn't even hear the doorbell ring. John sighs and puts away his newspaper at the sound of footsteps on the stairs - Mrs Hudson's familiar tread, accompanied by someone else. If John still had a heartbeat, he's pretty sure it would have stalled when his eyes fell on the woman that appears in the doorway. (He doesn’t even notice Mrs Hudson giving him a sharp look before she disappears back down the stairs.) Dark hair - albeit straight - with angular features, this unfamiliar visitor looks oddly familiar, though John can't figure out why. (And he's certain he'd remember taking blood off her.)

"John Watson," he says, extending a hand to her. She shakes it almost hesitantly. (Definitely a client, in that case.)

"Elizabeth Flaversham," she says quietly, her voice soft, not at all what John's expected. (Then again, he's not sure what he expects of her.) "I'm here to see -"

"Sherlock."

"Well, yes."

"I'll just get him for you. Do sit down." He gestures at the client chair, and enters the kitchen, Sherlock still hunched over the table. “Client. Elizabeth Flaversham, whoever she is.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up so fast that John’s surprised his neck didn’t crack. “Client? What does she want?”

“Ask her yourself. I’m not your valet.”

Sherlock grumbles something to himself and peels off the bloody gloves, dumping them unceremoniously onto the table before stalking into the living room. John follows, exasperated at his lover’s behaviour, and almost walks into him. Sherlock has come to a stop just inside the doorway, staring at the woman in front of him.

“Why did you give up the child?” he asks, his voice oddly low, sounding half-choked. John frowns, taking his customary seat, then freezes when he sees that Sherlock hasn’t moved towards his own chair, face pale and eyes haunted as he watches Ms Flaversham.

“How –“

Sherlock cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “That’s not important. It’s written all over you anyway, for someone who knows where to look. What’s important is why you abandoned your baby all of those years ago.”

John feels ill at the dawning comprehension at what he sees before him, longing to go to Sherlock and hug him. But he won’t. Not right now.

“I don’t see –“ the woman tries again, and once again Sherlock cuts her off, half-disguised pain seeping into his voice.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Probably thought you were doing the right thing, felt you were too young to be a mother. It’d be over thirty years ago now, you could only have been seventeen or eighteen. Why would it matter, abandoning a defenceless baby to the cold like that? Better for him to die, you thought, than give him to an orphanage. You might only get found out then, and can’t have that happening. Would ruin you.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances back at John, at the warning tone in his voice, and seems to settle somewhat. He nods slightly, and takes his seat.

“I apologise. I – I let my temper run away on me. Please, Ms Flaversham, do tell us why exactly you’re here.”

The woman takes a visibly deep breath and composes herself. “I was sixteen, actually, Mr Holmes. And I was scared. I didn’t know what to do so I did the first thing I thought of. And believe me, I’ve regretted it for a long time, but the boy is long dead and there’s nothing that either of us can do for him now.

“I’m here because I want you to help me find someone. You remind me of him, a bit, actually. Larry Proulx.”  
Sherlock sucks in a breath in spite of himself (though pretending to breathe in front of clients is helpful, that one was a bit excessive.) “Clearly you haven’t been back to London in a while. Larry Proulx was acquitted of larceny about five years ago. If I’d been on the case, then it would have been a conviction. You mean to say I resemble him?”

Ms Flaversham winces, and shakes her head slightly, as if trying to shake off a sudden bolt of memory. “No, but you move like him. Where is he now?”

Sherlock smirks, just slightly, but John still sees the cavernous pain in his eyes. “Dead. His car went into the Thames shortly after the trial.” He stands up and stretches. “If you don’t mind, I have a very important experiment to be getting back to. Good night, Ms Flaversham.” With that, he simply goes back into the kitchen, leaving John with the pale-faced client whom even he can’t summon any sympathy for.


	2. Aftermath and Recovery

It isn't long before Sherlock abandons the experiment and goes into the bedroom. John can hardly believe his eyes, but after that business with Flaversham he supposes Sherlock just isn't in his right mind. So instead of remarking on it to the walls or the skull, he quietly cleans up the mess and follows his lover into the bedroom.

Sherlock is curled into a ball under the covers - foetal position - only the top of his curls peeking out. John doesn't say a word, just slips off his shoes and slides in behind him, wrapping his arms around his too-thin waist.

It is a long time before Sherlock speaks, putting voice to a decades old pain.

"I used to think that I was defective," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "I used to think that there was something wrong with me and that that was why she didn't want me. I always knew that I wasn't a Holmes, because I never had to go away on the full moon. They used to leave me with a healer that they knew. Once a month, sometimes twice, until they decided that I was old enough to take care of myself, but the healer would still drop-in just to check on me. She was very like Mrs Hudson that way." He sighs, and John simply cards his fingers through the curls, waiting for him to go on. There’s nothing for him to say now anyway.

 "Eventually, I realised that there was nothing wrong with me, that she just hadn't wanted me and that almost hurt worse. It didn't matter that I had other parents. I still wondered about her, what she'd be like, what she'd think of me. But I've realised that it doesn't matter. If she had never done that, I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't have any of this. So I suppose I'm grateful now, but it's taken a lot of adjusting. I just - she doesn't fit with what I imagined her to be."

"And you're certain that's her?"

Sherlock nods. "When she saw me, she looked as if she'd seen a ghost. I probably take after her side of the family, but I don't want to know. As far as I care, Violet's my mother. It doesn't matter that I look nothing like her. She's the one who was always there, so she's the only one who matters now. All Elizabeth Flaversham ever gave me were genetics and hypothermia."

Neither of them speaks again for the rest of the night, and somewhere around dawn each drifts off into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Acceptance

A few evenings after Elizabeth Flaversham’s visit, Mycroft drops by with a file. John and Sherlock find him sitting in John’s armchair when they wander out of their bedroom at dusk, thankfully dressed this time. (Possibility of a case for Lestrade has ensured that much, and frankly Mycroft wandering in on them once was bad enough.) Sherlock rolls his eyes to see his brother, half-tempted to ignore him and haul John back to bed, but thinks better of it. If Mycroft has a case for them, then it had better be interesting enough to beat the possibility of a serial killer.

It’s not a case, not that Sherlock really thought it was. Instead, it’s something far more interesting.

“I’ve done some research on a certain Ms Flaversham,” Mycroft says as soon as he concludes that his brother isn’t going to turn tail this time, before Sherlock himself was fully certain on the fact.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as if unconcerned and plucks his violin off its stand before dropping into his armchair. “Anything interesting?” And there, a barely hidden undercurrent, is his interest in the woman who’s likely his birth mother.

“Not a particularly remarkable student at school. Accomplished debater, Master’s Degree in English Literature, once divorced, no known children, and a taste for good Chilean wine.”

“Dull, predictable.”

“However, her grand-uncle is another story. A somewhat well-known private detective in the 1880s and 1890s, he temporarily shared rooms with surgeon who accompanied him on certain cases, before the detective retired to Sussex in 1904 to keep bees.”

Sherlock’s fingers still in their examination of the violin, and John sits on the arm of his chair, one arm snaking around Sherlock’s shoulders, reminding him of his presence, as if it could be forgotten.

“What became of them?” John asks, mind drifting to a months old conversation where Sherlock expressed an interest in apiology.

“The detective, Basil Flaversham, was killed in an undercover assignment in Germany in 1916. The surgeon, William Dawson Watson, had at this stage married. One son was killed in the Great War, however Dawson himself survived and lived to be eighty. His grandson was believed dead in Korea, however,” and Mycroft’s eyes slip to John, “somehow I suspect he’s more undead than dead.”

 

Though he still somewhat resents Elizabeth Flaversham, Sherlock finds that with Mycroft’s research he’s able to make more peace with himself than before. There remain days where the pain of not being wanted by his own mother comes back to haunt him, but he can live with it now, somewhat, surrounded by so many people who do love him. There’s a fascination there too, of course, with this other detective that he’s supposedly related to, and the friendship that he had with John’s grandfather. (And really, isn’t that a nice twist of Fate?)

(Privately, Sherlock concedes to himself that he’s relieved to know these things about his genetic family. He’d often wondered about them before, but now there is no need for that. He has John, and Violet and Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and Molly and Lestrade. Some nights, he feels as if he still has Siger too. And that’s quite enough to be getting on with.)


End file.
